The Goddess Who Bled
by Mythendary
Summary: Colette was eleven when she found the library. / A story about a story.
1. 1: Don't Let It Worry You

**This story is five years old. I thought I first wrote it in 2015 or even 2016, but then I found an earlier document and saw that I had actually written the first draft in June of 2014. (Which makes more sense, as I believe I finished ****_The Water of the Wondrous Isles,_**** which heavily influenced the passages of the book Colette reads here, in 2013 or '14.) It has been recently edited.**

**This is not, strictly speaking, an AU. However, to more easily explain the absence of Lloyd and other characters at this point, I like to think of it as happening concurrently with my earlier fic Sweet Bread.**

* * *

1.

* * *

Colette was eleven when she found the library.

She had been asked to go to the rooms at the back of the House of Salvation, where the priests lived, to find a particular book of scripture for use in service later that day. Since the room belonging to the priest who had asked her was in a different part of the rectory from where Colette had lessons, and since she wasn't asked to run errands often, she managed to get herself lost after only a few minutes.

Though the building wasn't as large as the temple that overlooked it, it was filled with narrow, creaking corridors and a dozen doors that all looked the same. The room Colette was looking for was supposed to be the second on the left from the end of a hall, across from a small window. Well, she was at the end of _a_ hall, and there _was_ a door across from a window. The floorboards squeaked beneath her as she turned the knob and peered in.

It wasn't a priest's room. It was a study, it looked like, with a nice lamp sitting on the large table in the middle. What was more, there were books, and lots of them: thick books with cracked spines, ornate books with gold leaf flaking off the edges, pilgrimage pamphlets that were nothing more than a few sheets tied together with string, and more, all stuffed with hardly a free space in the short shelves lining the walls. It was more books than Colette had seen in her lifetime, since even her own study room in the House had only a single shelf, and it was in pondering this that she came upon the word: _library._

It wasn't where she had been sent, but she figured there might be a copy of the book she needed in the library anyways. Her eyes landed upon a shelf of books that looked like scripture. She went over.

This shelf came up to her chin. The spines of the books bore the angelic language, but none of the titles looked familiar. Curious, she hooked her finger in the spine of one ancient-looking tome, pulled it out, and opened it at random. What kind of books besides scripture would be written in angelic language? Saints' stories?

Not quite.

_...After saying this, Mithos stood alone between the two great armies, bearing the holy sword aloft by his injured arm. The forces heeded none of his words, and converged upon him. At once Martel herself swept to his side, saying: "Do not harm this boy! He is to me brother and son and successor, and has risked all to speak to you here. If you have any respect for me, you shall listen to him; but if you fear for your own lives, you shall stay back!"_

This was the story of when the hero Mithos had stood out on the battlefield between two warring armies and convinced them to leave in peace. And it had indeed been told that he had done so "with the strength of the Goddess' protection." But Colette had never heard it this way, in which the Goddess Martel had descended to his side, claimed him her son, and stood down the armies herself.

Nor had she heard that the hero Mithos had been injured at the time. Or ever, really.

She flipped back a bit until she found another passage.

_...Martel remained there and lamented the wickedness of the world. "If our good acts are so small as to be blown away like sand in the wind, what worth is it?"_

_What is this?_ thought Colette, feeling like the book was suddenly much heavier in her hands, a weight that sank to the pit of her stomach. _Heresy_?

_In anguish, Martel sought solace in the one she loved. He said, "I had believed that the world was even more wicked, and it was you who saw me wrong. The good you did that day may have been small, but it was not sand: it spread like a flame." But Martel said, "It may have been so then, but few people will allow themselves to be burned. They block off their hearts, because they fear that like fire, goodness will hurt them."_

_The one she loved said, "Will you take the path that others have suggested? Would you burn the entire world to find out?" And Martel became upset, saying, "No! I cannot burn the world in any sense. I can spark the hearts of those who will listen, but no flame I cast can purify them – they must want to burn with goodness for themselves."_

What was this, thought Colette again, that had the _Goddess Martel_ say such unholy things? It read like scripture, or at least close enough that Colette could follow the angelic language. And it _was_ old – so somebody must have thought it worth keeping. Yet, to have _Martel _denouncing the world, and doubting her own power in it...

But there was something in the words that struck Colette's heart.

She heard a shuffling down the hall outside, and the priest's voice. "Chosen, are you down here?" A few heavy, sloshing steps in her direction. "I've found the readings."

Colette snapped the book shut and shoved it back in the shelf – then winced and gently aligned its spine with the others, reminding herself that this was still a church book and therefore something with which she should be careful. She darted out of the room, hoping to make it to the hallway before the priest saw exactly where she had been. "Yes, Father. I'm here."

* * *

"Father," she said after the service that took place inside the House of Salvation had ended, "I, um, I found something in the House that I want to talk to you about..."

Father Andrew, the priest who had asked her to hunt for the readings earlier, was very old and very well-read, even among the rest of the clergy. Colette had cornered him while he was clearing off the altar. He folded the old altarcloth, careful to keep from bending it over a patch where the embroidery was coming out, then turned to her.

"What is it, Chosen?" he said, not unkindly.

"Um," said Colette. "When you asked me to go look for the book earlier, I got lost and ended up in a library. I looked at one of the books there because I thought it might be the right one, but what I found was...I found a story about the ancient war..." She trailed off. Father Andrew's expression hadn't changed.

"What about it?" he asked.

"Well," began Colette, "in it, Martel was saying things about how the world was wicked, and...um...it didn't seem to me like that was right," she finished quickly, eager to show that she hadn't been swayed by the book, or anything like that.

Father Andrew did not seem surprised. "Yes, we do have some old stories about the war back there," he said. "They're a little bit more imaginative than the ones we consult for teachings."

"Imaginative?" repeated Colette. "What do you mean, Father?"

Father Andrew shuffled towards the rectory. "There are the books that we've been given by the Goddess Martel herself," he said, "and then there are books like those, which were written by human hands. That particular one is a very old story...perhaps as old as when the first Chosen spoke with Martel at the Tower of Salvation. I'm sorry, but could you carry this?" He interrupted himself to hand Colette the altarcloth so that he could pick up the book of scripture as he slowly made his way around the altar. "Thank you."

Colette remained where she was. "Um...are you saying," she started, "that those stories aren't real?"

"Are they factual?" said Father Andrew, setting off towards the rooms in the back. "Probably not. They're more of a...dramatic retelling of the ancient war."

Colette stepped down from the altar to follow him. "Why do we keep them, then?"

"Because like all stories, they can serve as a source of inspiration." He braced himself on the wall as he took the three steps down to the rectory door. "What you mentioned about the Goddess Martel, for instance. In that story, she's portrayed as being human, in order to convey how close the Goddess was to humanity during that time. This is actually...very common in ancient texts, most likely because it's how people perceived the spirits who were previously worshiped..."

"But there's nothing wrong with reading them?" Colette waited until Father Andrew had gotten off the steps safely, then joined him at the crooked threshold. "Would I get in trouble if the pastoress found out?"

"Trouble?" repeated Father Andrew, as though to himself. "No, not trouble... Don't let it worry you, Chosen. It's a story, nothing more."

* * *

Colette couldn't help but let the book worry her. As she left the House of Salvation that day, she glanced next door to the Temple of Martel, which dwarfed it. All her life she'd studied the stories of scripture backwards and forwards, and these were stories she hadn't heard before. Like she might find in a novel, which her grandmother didn't like her to read. This was a church book, so her grandmother would think it was okay, even though Colette still wasn't sure if she should be reading it. Overall, it was probably best that she not let it distract her.

Still, she remained curious.

Her father was waiting for her at the end of the path to walk her back to the village, like usual. He carried the knife that he always brought with him whenever he walked to the temple. In order to protect herself in the forest, Colette had a chakram that she kept in a round leather bag she wore over her shoulder. This was so that she didn't hurt herself with her fingers so close to the edge of a knife, though she had been told repeatedly the bladed half of the chakram could still cut her up badly if she wasn't careful. Because of this, she thought she might be too nervous to use her weapon if it was ever needed; though there hadn't yet been a chance for her to find out, since her father said it was his responsibility to fight off any monsters they came across while walking back to Iselia.

There weren't any incidents on their way back that day, for which Colette was grateful, since she felt anxious even standing in the back during a battle. She took her off chakram as soon as she got into the house.

"Everybody's safe?" asked her grandmother, as always.

"Yes, Grandmother," said Colette.

"What would you like for dinner, Colette?" asked her father.

"She should finish her schoolwork first, Frank," said her grandmother, who sat at the head of the table with the family scripture open in front of her.

Colette sat down beside her. "I actually started my schoolwork at the temple today."

"You finished with all your studies there, I hope?"

Colette nodded.

That night, as she lay in her bed and prayed before pulling up the covers, Colette thought about the book. _Thank you, Martel, for helping me not be confused_, she said inside her own head. _I'm sorry if I shouldn't have read the book, and I'm sorry that I was distracted when I was supposed to be helping Father Andrew. But thank you for showing me to somebody like him who could explain it, and thank you for letting me come home without doubts..._

* * *

After Colette finished her lesson with the elderly pastoress at the House of Salvation the next afternoon, she declined help on her schoolwork and said, very politely, that she would like to read something on her own for a while. The pastoress left the room. Colette gathered her papers into her schoolbag, put the books she had been studying back on their shelves, quietly opened the door, and found her way to the library at the back of the rectory.

The library was unchanged from the day before. Colette wondered how often the priests used this room. She closed the door behind her, then took the book about the hero Mithos and the Goddess Martel to the table with the nice lamp and sat down.

So long as she remembered it was just a story, as Father Andrew had said, there shouldn't be anything wrong with reading.

There wasn't anything on the front of the book – it was just worn, pinkish hide with remnants of what looked to be green ink around the border. She opened it from the front this time, properly, and found the title page: _The Last Years of the Great War and the Triumph of the Hero Mithos._ There was no index, but the page right after had a smaller title before the first paragraph:

_I. How Mithos came to be a wanderer, and how Martel found him in the wood._

Not even divided into smaller books, but chapters. It really was like a novel.

Colette was three-fourths of the way through the first chapter – at the part where Mithos, wandering the woods after his home was destroyed by invaders, had figured out that somebody was leaving food for him and clearing monsters from his path, but hadn't yet figured out who – when the door opened. She jumped in her seat.

"Oh, Chosen – I'm sorry." One of the priestesses, a short woman with small eyes, blinked at her from the doorway. "Did I startle you?"

"N-no," said Colette, her heart still pounding.

The priestess frowned a bit, like she'd been startled into forgetting what she was doing there. Then she looked down at the book in front of Colette. She smiled. Colette had never had a lesson from her, and didn't think she had ever really spoken with this priestess, which was odd. There was something distinctly _auntish _about her, Colette thought.

"_The Last Years of the Great War_. That's one of my favorites," said the priestess. She quickly lowered her voice and added, "But don't tell the pastoress. I don't think I'm actually allowed to give that as an answer."

"Why not?" asked Colette, as though she didn't already know.

The priestess tipped her head towards one shoulder. "Because it takes a few liberties with the sequence in the holy books. But I'm not saying there's anything wrong –" She held up her hands, delicately, as though defending herself. "The Chosen would know that, right?" Now she leaned into the room. "I haven't seen much of anybody here recently. How far are you?"

"I'm...not very." Colette fidgeted with the corner of a page. "I just found it. I'm not very fast at reading, and..."

"And? Do you like it so far?"

Colette glanced back up. The priestess was smiling. With the sense of confessing a secret, Colette allowed herself to return it a little. "I think so. It's..." She struggled for the words. "It's not like any of the other books here."

"No," said the priestess, her eyes crinkling at the corners. "It's really a gem, isn't it?"

* * *

Her name was Mother Kallista, and over the next week Colette just happened to slip away to the library every day around the time the priestess would come in to study.

"So, you're still not done, Chosen?" asked Mother Kallista one day as Colette found her place in the book. She had the rather impolite habit of leaning over the table opposite her and reading in _front_ of Colette's shoulder, so to speak, but Colette didn't mind.

"I'm getting closer," said Colette, running a fingernail down the edges of the hundred or so pages she had left. "Is it bad that I need so long?"

Mother Kallista blinked. "Bad? Why, no, it's not bad," she said, then swung herself off the table and meandered over to the shelf that contained books on law. She was an academic, and had studied in Palmacosta before joining the church there. While on her pilgrimage after ordination, she had ended up at the Martel Temple with neither the energy nor funds to return, or so she had said, and thus had let the group she had come with go on while she stayed. "In fact, I'm almost jealous – I go through things so quickly, there's hardly time to enjoy them." She stopped with her hand on the spine of a book. "Was that arrogant? I'm sorry."

Colette had also learned that Mother Kallista's specialty was ethics. She handled disputes for the priests at the temple, and said she did the same for people in Iselia whenever the Mayor requested it, though Colette couldn't recall having ever seen her in town.

"Mother, I have a question," said Colette, once Kallista had returned to the table. "Who is 'the one Martel loved'?"

Mother Kallista lounged as best as she could across the plain wooden chair. "Ah, yes...that's a good one, isn't it? He never gets a name."

"But do you know who he's supposed to be?" asked Colette. "Martel and Mithos save him near the border of Balacrouf. I don't know of any saints that have a story like that."

"Well...you're right," said Mother Kallista. "We don't know who he's supposed to be. From the text, we can guess that he had some sort of involvement with the military – otherwise, he wouldn't _be_ near the border of Balacrouf during that time. And if he was a refugee, it probably would have said –"

"Like it described Mithos himself," added Colette.

"Yes," said Kallista. "The text doesn't draw attention to Mithos' virtue the same way it usually does when he helps somebody downtrodden, so this man was probably someone important."

"But...he doesn't really act like it, does he, Mother?" said Colette. "I know it says he helps them in Asgard, but after that, the only thing he really does is talk with Martel. I mean...that _is_ really important, but isn't it a little strange for somebody Martel loves to not do anything else?"

"Ah." Mother Kallista jabbed a finger toward Colette. "There's actually quite an interesting theory, in regards to why he has that title, at least." She waved about her hand as she spoke. Colette got the sense that she was younger than her bird-like face implied. "Some people have proposed that 'the one Martel loves' is supposed to be a stand-in for the reader. No, think," she said, holding up one finger again before Colette could cut in. "What description do we get of him? Do we get a name or nationality? No – only that he was someone who had 'witnessed the deeds of Mithos and Martel, and set aside his life to join them.' Then, after the visit to Asgard, his role is just to interact with the Goddess and witness her and Mithos' journey. He's not a _character_: he's a blank slate upon which the pious reader can imagine themselves taking part in the story; or, to be a bit more charitable, an example of what a good attentive disciple _should_ have done at the time."

Colette paused. She thought he talked too much to be a blank slate, but she liked the idea. "That makes sense. It's kind of funny that they would still write him as a 'he', though."

"Funny that the writer would make it sound like the Goddess Martel had a boyfriend, you mean?"

Colette quickly looked down. "Um, yes, I was kind of thinking about that..."

"But throughout the entire story, Martel's portrayed as nearly human," said Mother Kallista. "She's even wounded by an arrow at one point, isn't she?"

_And her holy blood seeped between her fingers. _"She heals herself right after, though."

"She still bled," said Mother Kallista. "I think everything points more towards the more human interpretation, personally."

Colette fidgeted. Mother Kallista leaned on one elbow. "Does that make you uncomfortable? You're a bit young for boys, aren't you?"

"What–?"

"Chosen, dear, we're human. The hero Mithos and all the saints were human." Suddenly serious, she stared into the lamp with her finger on her chin, looking quietly pensive. "I don't think it offends Martel for us to want...to think of her in those terms."

Looking for a different topic, Colette flipped back through the book, pushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "Martel didn't only love one person," she said. "I remember. It says Mithos is the one she loves most of all, over and over..."

"The Goddess is supposed to love all her children," said Kallista, still staring into the lamplight. "What can I say? Perhaps the phrase here means something that's been lost to time."

"Mother, what about the other man?" continued Colette, having failed to find a citation. "The other 'one who loved Mithos.' Who was he? It couldn't have been the same thing, as between Martel and..."

"Well, it might," said Mother Kallista, and Colette's eyes went wide. Kallista retreated, but it seemed like she was stifling a laugh. "The one who took them to the palace city, right? I think he was just an ally. He doesn't come up nearly as often, does he?"

"No, it's mostly Mithos and Martel." Colette shook her head, and tried to find the place she had left off. "Mostly...Martel, actually." She looked up. "That's another thing that's interesting...isn't it? Mithos is the hero in the title, but when you look at the story, it's Martel who's saving him."

"I think that's the point," said Mother Kallista.

"I know it should be," said Colette. "But...even after reading so much through, I feel like I don't know him very well. Compared to Martel, that is." Colette frowned. She felt like she was on the edge of something, as though one of those threads in the text that Mother Kallista could see plain as day was finally revealing itself to her. "I mean, I know I might be wrong, but..."

Mother Kallista crossed her arms. "I don't know, because you haven't said what about." Her expression twinged with exasperation. "You're allowed to argue with me, Chosen. You've been doing it this entire time."

"Okay," said Colette quickly, straightening her back out of habit. "I'm sorry. I'm just not sure that I can say something like this on my own, but..." She bit her lip. Mother Kallista was looking at her kindly.

"Go on," she said.

Colette took a deep breath. "It's funny to me," she began, "that, after the beginning, the story still talks more about Martel. It's about why she's with Mithos, or why she's saving him, more than why he's trying to stop the war. Like when they need to ask something of the Spirit of Earth, and Martel is the one who comes up with the idea of bringing him offerings and figures out what he's capable of, even though Mithos is the one she sends to talk to him. And then it's Martel who wonders if it was right to involve any of the Spirits, and is the most sad when they find that the Spirit of the Great Tree is missing, and..." This time, after a moment, the words came to her instead of the other way around, and suddenly all made sense. "What I mean is, it's like _she's_ the heroine."

* * *

It really was interesting, thought Colette, that their entire religion was centered around Martel, and yet Colette had never imagined her as the heroine of her own story.

Maybe, as a goddess, Martel wasn't supposed to _have_ her own story, at least not in the way that a hero did. A hero was a single person, with a single lifetime: Martel was the protector of the entire world. The struggles of the world _were_ her story. Mother Kallista had proposed that Martel's involvement in the plot could have been meant as an exaggeration of how she guided Mithos throughout his journey, and pointed out that, even if Martel was making most of the decisions, it was Mithos who actually carried them out.

But not all of them, Colette thought now, remembering how Martel had rushed – or rather _would_ rush_, _as Colette had not reached that part yet – out between two warring armies in order to save the hero she loved most of all.

Perhaps it wasn't such a big thing for a goddess, to stop armies when the situation was right.

Still, Colette liked the implication that Martel was a goddess who thought like a human, who became upset and lonely and had to actively work to change history. Who had enough of a body to bleed.

That afternoon, when Colette and her father had crossed the gates into Iselia and were halfway to the house, they heard a boy scream from some distance away.

"Father," said Colette, "did you hear that?"

He paused. "It was probably somebody playing," he said, placating. "It came from within the village."

Colette nodded, but a few seconds later, she heard more screams, and they were angry, and she recognized them. "I think I know that person," she said quickly, and ran down the path.

"Wait – Colette!"

She was right. Next to the garden she saw a younger boy from school – Bogi, she thought it was? – standing down another boy and girl from her class. All three had fists raised.

Colette ran up to them and spread her arms. "Stop! I don't want anybody hurt!"

All three flinched simultaneously. Bogi, the boy who stood alone immediately let his arms slump to his sides. The other two also slacked for a minute, and looked around as though they suspected somebody else would arrive, but when nobody showed they both turned to Colette.

"Who don't you want hurt, exactly?" asked the girl from her class, stern again.

"All of you," said Colette. A pause. "Who was the person who screamed?"

"That was _him_, trying to cover himself after picking a fight with somebody smaller," said the boy who stood next to the girl, practically straining at the bit.

"I wasn't trying to pick a fight!" yelled Bogi, who despite being younger did in fact have a few inches on the other two. "And smaller doesn't count if it's two against one!"

"All I was doing was making it even!"

"Stop!" said Colette, throwing out her arms again. This time, they actually stepped back. "Whatever you're angry about, none of you should fight over it!"

"What are you even doing here, Colette?" asked the girl. "This isn't your fight!"

"No," said Colette, "but I'm the Chosen. I'm supposed to make sure people get along!"

That wasn't necessarily part of the description, and the older boy seemed to realize. "Being the Chosen," he muttered – just loud enough that Colette caught it – "doesn't mean you get to be a snitch."

"I'm not trying to be a snitch," Colette insisted, "I just don't want you to hurt each other. And, and if that means I have to get Mr. Taban or somebody –"

"Fine," said the girl sharply. "We won't fight, if that'll make you happy. All right?"

Colette nodded. The girl stormed off, and her friend followed her.

"He really was going to fight me," said Bogi, holding up his hands as though in defense. "I didn't start it. I swear."

"But you're okay, right?" asked Colette.

Her father finally came running up to her from across the garden. "Colette, what are you doing? What's gotten into you?"

He reached for her arm, and Bogi took the opportunity to run off in the other direction. "I'm sorry," said Colette, "but I thought somebody was hurt."

"Do you even know those children?" asked her father.

"Yes. They go to school with me."

Her father shook his head. "Even in the village, please don't go running off. You should have asked me to go with you."

"I know," said Colette. "I'm sorry."

"Especially when you could be hurt..." He sighed, then let go of her arm. "Please don't ever do that again."

"I won't, Father."

Her father shook his head again. "It's all right, Chosen."

The title could be either a bad or a good sign, but he said it respectfully, which usually signaled that he was done with discipline. "Will you not tell Grandmother? Please?"

"I won't," he promised. "But we should get home before she starts to worry."

* * *

Colette wasn't sure whether her heroics had been successful or not, given that her classmates hadn't resolved whatever they were fighting about in the first place; furthermore, she realized in her room later that night, it had been a little silly to run between them as dramatically as Martel on the battlefield.

Still. Doing something had to have been better than doing nothing. And they all _had _run off without actually starting a fight.

Martel in the stories had doubts about great things she had done, even after the fact. Not that anything Colette had done counted as great. But if Martel thought about great things the same way as a normal girl would think about normal things, then maybe if Colette ever had the power to do great things, it wouldn't mean so much of a change in _herself_...

That was the first night that Colette, without thinking too much about it at the time, directed her prayers to the Martel she knew from the books. That night, she spoke to the Goddess who bled.

She realized after the fact that this was probably somewhat blasphemous. It wasn't even the real Martel, after all. And yet, the Martel from the books seemed so much more real to her than the Martel she had been speaking to her entire life. Could that be an honest way of talking to the Goddess: through the character made in her image? Was this what Father Andrew meant when he spoke of stories as a means of inspiration?

As she pulled up the covers, Colette admitted to herself that she was wishing – hoping – that Martel really was more like the Martel in the story. Because if Martel _was_ nearly human, then Colette could almost imagine one day becoming a part of her.


	2. 2: A Truth for a Different Place (1)

2.a.

* * *

Every so often, on certain festivals, the Chosen was encouraged to select and deliver the reading for service. Colette dutifully did so whenever asked, even on the occasions when it really was an encouragement and not something just shy of an order, since she knew that the priests liked to see her take part. She also knew that most previous Chosens had taken on even more liturgical duties than she at the same age.

But such events never failed to make her nervous: nervous that the passage she chose wouldn't fit the festival, nervous that she would stutter during the reading, nervous that she would trip while going to or from the altar. She'd only tripped once, and she'd always been able to explain her choice of passage well enough in the summary, and the pastoress had said she was getting better about stuttering; but she still couldn't get past the acute discomfort of kneeling alone on the altar, with the eyes of nearly the entire village on her expecting something holy. It was the worst parts of the Chosen's life all distilled into a few super-concentrated and suffocating moments.

For once, however, the eyes of the villagers were not what she was dreading most about the upcoming feast day of Spiritua.

The pastoress dropped in on her one day towards the end of her lessons, startling Father Andrew as he left. "Chosen," she greeted. "Have you decided what you will be reading during the festival?"

"Yes, Pastoress," said Colette with a quick nod.

"Oh, good. What is it?"

"It's about the start of the hero Mithos' journey," said Colette, "and how Martel brought him to the palace city."

The pastoress nodded. Whether it was approving or not was hard to tell. She wasn't a very cold-looking woman – in fact, Colette found her round face and wrinkles reminiscent of her own grandmother – but she tended to hold herself distantly. "I see. How does this relate to the festival?"

"Because it's about the Chosen's journey," said Colette, who had anticipated this. "The...the Chosen's journey was established by Martel in honor of the journey Mithos took during the war. So not only does this passage show its origins, but the lesson is how Martel brings all those worthy through it."

"That lesson could be applied to all pilgrimages," said the pastoress.

"Yes," said Colette. "I might talk about that. As we, um, remember why Spiritua's pilgrimage was important, we need to remember why all pilgrimages are important in the first place."

The pastoress seemed satisfied. "Do you need any help with your translation?"

Colette hoped she didn't look nervous. "Actually, Mother Kallista has been helping me with the translation. But thank you for asking, Mother."

At the mention of Mother Kallista, the pastoress pressed her lips into a narrower line. But she didn't say anything about it. "So you've gotten a head start. Very good. I look forward to hearing it along with your summary."

"Thank you, Mother," said Colette again, and the pastoress left.

Her choice of reading had been more of a compulsion, having been decided after she reached a scene in the book last week that had struck her with so much emotion that she hadn't stopped thinking about it since. It was a passage in which Mithos, separated from Martel at the time, had witnessed the death of a girl who had been traveling as one of his followers. This wasn't a story Colette had read in scripture, but Mother Kallista had said it was written very similarly to other early passages describing Mithos' own death and Martel's greatest sorrow, which _The Last Years of the Great War_ apparently omitted. It wasn't that Colette had been very attached to the girl who had died in the scene – she had been a new follower, and wasn't named – but that the words themselves, telling of Mithos' grief turned to anger, were powerful. Colette had been alone in the library at the time, and had found herself crying as much as when her own grandfather had died. She couldn't ever remember her father crying when he read novels, back when those were still allowed in her house, and she wondered if he had ever read something that affected him so much.

The day after, her conversation with Mother Kallista had been particularly in earnest. "Since you've nearly read it all, what's your favorite part so far?" Kallista asked. "I'm fond of the sequence where Mithos receives the holy sword, simply because of the language. '_I do not claim the '_art' _of kings, but something greater: an '_art' _earned, not inherited..._" she quoted in angelic language.

"I'm sorry, Mother, but I don't know one of those words," said Colette, who held the book to her chest. "'Art'?"

Mother Kallista blinked. "_Art_, 'power.' It's fairly common, isn't it?"

Colette opened the book and began searching for that line. "Like _arte_? Ar-tay?" Immediately she clamped a hand over her mouth, "Mother, I'm sorry, I shouldn't – "

"Oh, so _that's_ how it's pronounced?" exclaimed Kallista. "You can tell the last time I was asked to read, can't you?"

Colette took a moment to relax while Mother Kallista laughed. "A-anyway," said Colette, "I liked that part, but then I'm surprised Mithos hasn't used the sword."

"And he never does!" said Mother Kallista. "That's the point! A power greater than kings: the support of the spirits that gave it to him. That was all he needed. He wasn't going to end the war with more bloodshed."

"Oh, right, that makes sense," said Colette.

"So, Chosen," said Kallista, "I shared my favorite part. Yours?"

Colette smiled. "My favorite so far...is the first part of the journey, when Mithos and Martel are looking for shelter."

"No kidding! Even though that's fairly early on, isn't it?"

"It is," said Colette, allowing herself to speak enthusiastically. "But I really like the speech Martel has towards the end, and the line about prayer –"

Kallista nodded. "Oh, yes, that's a good one!"

"It's – I'd never thought about it that way before," said Colette, clasping her hands before her. "But it's true, isn't it? '_See, this is how prayers are answered.' _They're in ordinary events, and if we can just realize them..."

"Right!" said Mother Kallista, still nodding. "Right. Exactly. That's a good summary."

"But the thing is, there are a lot of parts in scripture that seem to say the same thing, only not as clearly," said Colette, deflecting the praise. "And I didn't get them, but now that I've read this, they all make sense..."

And, at precisely that point, the conviction had fallen on her that she _needed _to share the story with others. Others besides Mother Kallista – people from the village who had never even heard of this version of the story before. Not merely that it might be nice to share it, or that others would like it, but that it suddenly seemed _necessary_ to add it to their understanding of Martel and the world.

So it had been Colette's resolution, later that day when they reminded her of the festival of Spiritua, that she would read that passage from the book at service. Even Mother Kallista, as she agreed to help, asked if this particular passage was really the best idea.

* * *

The problem wasn't that the passage was from a book outside of scripture. Extra-canonical readings were allowed, and every so often the service reading would indeed be a piece of commentary, or a small piece attributed to a saint, or something similar; though this usually wouldn't happen in services that were open to the village.

Rather, the problem was twofold. First: priests, or Colette in this case, were heavily encouraged to only use simple, familiar readings for popular services. Second: every reading, scripture or not, was required to be _doctrinal_, agreeing with everything presented in scripture even if it sought to expand on the meaning.

Colette thought that the moral of her chosen reading was clear enough, given how quickly she herself had picked up on it. Even Mother Kallista had called it "blunt". However, the passage contained several elements which were missing or outright contradicted in the version found in scripture. The pastoress would never approve.

Which was why Colette was going to count on her good favor, go straight into the reading during service, and pray that nobody tried to remove her from the altar.

_I know this is dishonest_, she thought. _But everybody needs to hear this. No...I really want everybody to hear this. _And by the time it occurred to her that her wants had nothing to do with the situation, it was the day before the festival, and it was too late to start a new translation.

During service in the chapel at the House of Salvation the next morning, Colette knelt up in the first row alongside the priests. The pastoress gave the opening prayers. When she was done she rolled up the altarmat, as was proper when switching speakers, then stood and took her place towards the side. Now Colette went up. She had the book with her, and had been hiding it a bit beneath the pages of her translation. If any of the priests noticed what it was as she unrolled the mat for herself and knelt, none seemed to show it.

Kneeling, she was on the same level as the congregation. In larger churches they had benches, and the speaker stood. Colette wondered if it would be more or less intimidating for everybody to stare up at her instead. Casting her eyes down, she placed the book before her and opened to the bookmark where the passage began, before setting her translation back on top of the open pages. Every time a reading was given in secular language, the speaker translated it anew in accordance with their own language and understanding. The original text still had to be present, however. Some of the older priests could translate on the fly, no written preparation required; although Colette could read angelic language, she wasn't able to translate it so quickly. She had written out her translation in neat letters and given it twice to Mother Kallista to proofread, and now tried to push aside the fear that her tongue would still trip over the words.

She looked up.

"In honor of Spiritua, our first Chosen," she began, her voice shaking only slightly, "I am going to read an interpretive version of the – the beginning of the journey undertaken by the hero Mithos, in whose memory the quest of the Chosen was created."

Nobody acted as though anything was wrong. Did the pastoress' eyes narrow? She must have imagined it. Mother Kallista was in the front, trying to smile, but not quite making it.

Her father and grandmother were a row behind them. It looked like about half of Iselia was present.

It was a single reading from a book she had found within the House of Salvation. And she was already up on the altar.

So she started the tale.


	3. 2: A Truth for a Different Place (2)

IV. _How Mithos and Martel first sought the seed of the great tree_

It was when Martel found Mithos wandering in the woods that he had already decided to travel to the palace city, in order to find out who was responsible for destroying his home. Martel, who had been looking for humans to help her end the war, saw that he was a brave and resolute young man, and as such took him under protection, swearing to accompany him the entire way.

One night, Mithos awoke to the Goddess weeping. He asked what troubled her, so she said, "Long ago, I planted a great tree as a show of my love for this world, a great tree which worked to purify the earth. If this tree were still around, I could have used its power to prevent many deaths. But the tree was killed long ago in war, and though I have been searching long and far for its seeds, I cannot find any."

Said Mithos, "I am already a wanderer. If it will help you, I will travel across the world looking for a seed of the great tree."

Said Martel, "What of your own quest?" And Mithos said, "My home is already destroyed, but if your tree will stop future destruction, I will search for it first."

"But what if there are no seeds left?" Asked Martel. Mithos answered, "I will search until I absolutely know that to be true."

This was Mithos' first journey across the world. With Martel at his side, he traveled to holy sites which may have once been the location of the great tree (for the world had changed much during the age when she was asleep.) And at each site Martel sought the mana of the great tree. Thirty-nine times she sought and found nothing. At the fortieth site, she and Mithos were held outside by the priest who claimed to guard a relic of the great tree deep within the temple.

Throughout their journey, they had come across many people who tended the holy sites: some who greeted them with kindness and hospitality, and others who scornfully drove them away. So they were not astonished when the priest said to them, "Who are you, to search for the remains of the great tree? A backwoods boy and maid? You are not fit to set foot in the entryway of this temple, much less its inner sanctum. Leave."

Mithos protested, saying that they meant only to inspect the relic, and meant no harm. The guards of the temple struck him across the face. Martel raised her hand as though to strike down the guards herself; but, then, her mind returned to her, and she stopped.

"Such charity a holy man shows to pilgrims!" Martel exclaimed in anger. "I see here an example of why people have become caught in endless fighting. You are the one not fit to set foot in the entryway of this temple, much less its inner sanctum." Then she along with Mithos left, and it was said that, henceforth, that priest and the guards collapsed under great pain whenever they tried to cross the threshold into the temple.

Away from the temple, Mithos asked Martel, "Why must we leave in humiliation? What about the seed?" Martel said, "That man is the only one shamed. And as for the seed of the great tree, it is not here, for I would have sensed it."

At once Mithos fell to his knees. "Have we been searching in vain?" he cried. "All throughout this journey I have prayed to you and for you, to the world and every spirit, that we may bring peace to the world. Here we are at the fortieth site, and nothing."

Martel soothed Mithos, but did not answer him. Shortly they came upon a cohort from the palace city, who were waiting in a field nearby. Martel led Mithos and approached them, asking a soldier, "Where is your commander?" "He is not here", was the response, "for he has gone with a noble to the temple." At that point they were approached by a man beside a well-clad woman. The man asked, "Is somebody seeking me?" Martel said, "Yes, we are exiles, and we seek to learn not only the fate of our village, but that of the great tree which once protected this land."

"Are you the ones who spoke outside the temple earlier?" asked the man. "Yes," said Mithos. At this, the man seemed struck: for he, though a man not easily moved, had been moved by both their words, and in time he would come to love them both. "It is not often that people mention the great tree," he said after a long silence. "We are about to return to the palace city to escort this noblewoman home. If you can care for yourselves, you are free to walk with us."

He departed. At last Martel turned to Mithos and said, "It was only because we came here that we are not only able to seek my tree, but follow your quest as well. See, this is how prayers are answered: not in vain wishing, but in learning how our own steps have led to places unseen."

And so they traveled with the cohort for a month, until they came to the palace city.


	4. 2: A Truth for a Different Place (3)

2.b.

* * *

Colette looked up serenely from the text.

"This story is important because it shows why we should all go on our own journeys," she said, her voice steady. "It talks about the first trip Mithos took across the world with Martel, and even though they didn't find what they were looking for, they ended up meeting somebody who would help them on their real quest. The meaning here is that we won't ever go on a journey in vain, because going someplace new will change something, even if it's ourselves."

So far, so good. She smiled. "I also think that Martel's words at the end are really important. She and Mithos found what they were supposed to, but it wasn't what they thought they were looking for. And it wasn't something that was just shown to them. If Mithos and Martel hadn't traveled the world for their own reasons, they wouldn't have been at the temple that day. If they hadn't spoken for themselves at the front of the temple, they wouldn't have impressed the commander. And even at the end, if Martel hadn't gone over to the army and asked, they wouldn't have been able to walk with them. So, even though they were praying, they still had to go out and find the answer. And for Martel, at least, I think prayer told her when she was in the right place, more than it told her where to go. So...if even the Goddess prays and becomes discouraged, we shouldn't feel lost if our prayers aren't answered exactly. Instead we should go out looking for answers ourselves, and trust that Martel will show us."

Colette closed the book and tucked it under her arm, then crawled off the altarmat, rolling it up. It was very quiet in the chapel. Her heart had been pounding when she'd gone up, but now she felt at peace.

She returned to her place in the front row and knelt. It was only when she realized that the room was still quiet, and nobody else was moving to take the altar, that a sinking feeling crept down her stomach and she cast her eyes downward.

The pastoress hobbled to her feet. Once she was up, she hurried more quickly than Colette had thought she was able to the altar and promptly began the next part of the service. But, first, she looked right at Colette. Colette looked down again as though in meditation, but she could still feel eyes on the top of her head.

* * *

"Chosen." Service had just ended, and Colette hadn't had the chance to leave her spot. The pastoress had come up behind her from the side aisle. "May I speak with you for a moment?"

Colette looked towards her family on the other side of the chapel. They didn't move. Colette gestured towards the pastoress, distraught, her mind a jumbled mixture of _I'm sorry_ and _Help me. _Her father just nodded, as though giving her permission to go.

"Yes, Pastoress," said Colette quietly.

"May we go to the rectory?" asked the pastoress.

Colette followed her to the little room in the front where Colette's lessons were held.

The pastoress closed the door as neatly as the old hinge would allow. "That was a very nice summary."

"I'm sor–" Colette blinked. "Um...thank you, Pastoress."

"But you know that we generally don't allow readings from outside of scripture during service."

Colette looked down. "I know. I'm sorry."

"Especially not on festivals."

"I'm sorry."

There was an uncomfortable silence. Colette realized the pastoress was waiting for something.

"I thought," said Colette, "that since we sometimes read commentary, a story would be okay."

"Commentary, though, doesn't have the Goddess weeping in the middle of the night. Or casting a priest out of his own temple."

"I know," said Colette softly. She bit her lip. "Are people upset?"

The pastoress sighed and looked towards the window. "I think, of those who listened, they're mostly confused."

"I'm sorry," said Colette yet again. "I should have made it more clear that it was a story. But...but I thought...that the teachings it showed were really good, and that those would help people if...even if I had to explain more later."

"No, Chosen, that's the worst part of this," said the pastoress sharply. "The teachings about prayers being answered indirectly, about some measure of fate being up to us, about perhaps finding it in something different than we expected – do you think that's what this village needs to hear, much less from the Chosen?"

Colette shook her head, protesting the pastoress' tone more than her actual question. "But it's _true_! Isn't it?"

The pastoress looked exasperated for a moment. She took a deep breath and covered her eyes. "Yes, it's true. It's more often true than the opposite, and it's something everybody who grows in faith must learn." Her hand slid down her face, and then she clasped both hands before her. "Colette. There are many truths in our teachings. That book you have is a truth for a different time, a different place – a different audience. But not now. Do you understand?" she asked, looking straight at Colette. "We are not living in easy times. This is not a rich church or a rich village –"

She moved one hand upwards, gesturing to the cracking ceiling. "There were people in the congregation today, several of them, who remember the time before the treaty, when even a young man wouldn't walk from here to the village on his own for fear of being captured by Desians and carted off to the ranch." She lowered her trembling hand and closed her eyes. "We were desperate. Then...one day just after you were born...it rained. There was no storm, yet the Desians came to us afterwards saying that one of their structures had been destroyed by lightning. They couldn't explain it. They had heard somehow about the birth of the Chosen, and had concluded...that Goddess or no, our beliefs must have been related.

"And it was they who came to us! We were only halfway to building a militia, but they came to _us, _promising a treaty so long as we never bothered them by way of word or weapon or curse. It's...to my own surprise that they have held it so far, though I doubt the rest of the village has honored it as strictly as it was asked." She coughed. "Even so...there has been no more lightning."

The pastoress looked straight at her. "Chosen, everything you said today was true. But ours is also a faith that believes in divine intervention. _That _is the truth the people of Iselia need from you."

_Now, and in the future._

"I'm sorry," said Colette again, sobered. "I shouldn't have...I didn't realize."

"You couldn't have," the pastoress murmured.

_Terrible,_ said the voice in Colette's head. _You're a terrible Chosen._ "Is there something I can do to make up for it?"

"I'm not asking you to make up for it," said the pastoress gravely. "But do you understand what sorts of things you can and can't read from now on?"

Colette nodded. Her eyes welled with tears.

Slowly, the pastoress turned and opened the door. "Your family will be waiting."

"I'll find them," said Colette, with barely a sniff. "Thank you."

The pastoress left. Colette sat down at the desk, put down the book, and daubed her eyes with the hem of her dress.

A moment later, Mother Kallista knocked on the open door. "Pastoress? Chosen?" She stepped into the room. "I'm sorry. She shouldn't have said whatever it was; I'll take responsibility –"

But she stopped as she looked around the room, finding nobody there but Colette.

Colette shook her head and turned to Mother Kallista. She could smile now. "The pastoress is wise," she said, wiping the last tear with her wrist.


	5. 3: The Book Itself

3.

* * *

Colette still felt somber when she stepped out of the House of Salvation. Her father and grandmother were off to the side talking to another family from the village. It took Colette a few seconds to recognize the lone boy from the fight she'd broken up among them, standing a bit off from his cluster of siblings.

She smiled, hoping it wasn't evident she'd been crying. The boy, Bogi, caught her eyes. He scowled and looked away.

With the intention of allowing her family to finish talking, Colette ambled off towards the temple and sat on one of the ledges that framed the courtyard. She still held the translation she had written out for the service, and now occupied herself by folding it into a paper star.

Bogi peeled himself away from his own family and, with a calculated sort of happenstance, ended up at the other end of the ledge.

"Your reading today was good," he said.

There was an awkward silence. "Um." Colette held up her star. "What do you think?"

"That's pretty cool," said Bogi. He had curly hair. He was younger than her, but not more than a couple of years.

Colette mustered a smile. "Thank you." She started on the second sheet.

Bogi started to drum a beat with his fingers. "Uh. As I was saying...that was a really good reading...I've never heard anything like it before in church."

"Yes," said Colette simply. "I took it from a different book."

Bogi merely nodded. Neither of them spoke. Colette finished her second star.

"Um." Bogi cleared his throat. "My parents have been telling me I should do something on my own after school. They really want me to do something with the temple." He paused. "Since I...really liked the reading, I was wondering, could I maybe walk up here to hear more of it, if you ever give it again, or just to help out, or..."

Colette whirled towards him. "You liked it that much?" There was a jolt in her chest.

Bogi seemed startled. "I guess...I mean...yeah?"

"Because, you don't have to like it. You don't have to say you liked it if you didn't," Colette continued frantically. "Are you really asking?"

He ducked his head and started focusing intently on the dirt. "Uh –"

"It's okay!" said Colette, remembering that she was supposed to be the mature one in this sort of situation. It was more usual for adults to act nervous when she was around, or to say things so nicely that she wasn't sure if they were honest or not. But this was somebody closer to her own age, and she had gotten used to other children not talking to her much at all. "You could – they would love to have you at the temple. I'm sure. If you want to, I mean. One of the priests always comes by to pick me up after school, and I'm sure you can walk with us."

"Really?" said Bogi, looking up.

Colette nodded. "Of course!"

"O...kay," he said, a bit more firmly on the second syllable. "I mean, I'll do that. Thank you, Cho..."

"It's Colette," she said over his mumble. "My name's Colette."

* * *

Mother Kallista, at least, was amused by Bogi. "I would bet that his parents are the exact sort that disapprove of anything not _strictly scriptural_," she said confidentially to Colette one day, "given how much he tries to argue with me."

"He has a lot of siblings," offered Colette. "Maybe he's used to arguing."

"Either way," said Kallista in a tone that could have been teasing or not, "he is _your_ charge and I am not going to tutor him."

"I never asked you to, Mother. He's reading it on his own."

Mother Kallista tilted her head. "I was joking, Chosen."

"I knew that," said Colette quickly. "But...he does seem to like it here, and...I'm glad about that."

She'd brought her schoolwork into the library today to be with Mother Kallista, even though she hadn't read any more of the book herself since the festival. Bogi had been with them until a few minutes ago, and was presently on some sort of errand for Father Andrew. Reading was admittedly not how he spent most of his time at the House of Salvation. Instead, he spent a lot of time walking around outside, asking the priests what they were doing, and listening in on Colette's studies. This last one was mostly allowed, though a stern glare from the pastoress had stopped him from interrupting with a thought of his own more than once. But he helped out any of the priests who asked, and listened with fascination to Mother Kallista's stories, and Colette could tell – or hoped, at least – that everybody liked having a new face around.

"It's good to see something young around," the pastoress later confided after ushering Bogi out of the room for one particular lesson. "Besides you, Chosen, of course."

She was referring to more than the company. For Colette was now well aware of something that the priests had been worrying about for years: the House of Salvation next to the Temple of Martel on the outskirts of Iselia was old. Very old.

There wasn't a time in anyone's memory when the floors didn't squeak, but within the past year the true problems of the building had become apparent. The basement had been abandoned because it was always flooding. A small rot on one of the pillars outside had started to grow, showing as an awful patch of mold that Colette had seen the pastoress measuring with a ruler more than once. The day after the festival of Spiritua, part of the roof over the rectory had collapsed, this last event being what had caused most of the recent anxiety among the priests, because currently Mother Kallista and one other had to sleep on mats in the room where they kept altarcloths and there wasn't any money to fix it.

The general consensus was that they couldn't ask the village for more money than they already did. Before the roof had collapsed, Mother Kallista had mournfully sold some tapestries and other altar decorations, to the point where they had nothing that wasn't necessary for service. Somebody wondered if it would be acceptable to go into Martel Temple itself to look for old treasures, at which point the pastoress had to remind everybody that they were forbidden to even attempt to walk past the sealed door until the occasion of the Chosen's oracle.

"Doesn't anybody make things here?" Bogi asked one day as he milled around the study after Colette's lessons.

"I think everybody makes what they need to," said Colette. "Mother Kallista makes everybody's vestments."

"Hasn't anybody thought of making extra and selling those?"

"Well..maybe there isn't enough time."

As Colette finished, they heard Mother Kallista's voice from the hallway: "Euphemia, there just isn't enough to support this many priests. I'll go –"

"Kallista, you're the only one here below forty," said the pastoress sternly. "We can't afford you to leave. _Nobody's_ leaving."

"But, this –" Kallista must have given some inaudible interjection. "Then allow me to put myself to more work. We can all make things to sell, I will make trips to Triet –"

"See, what did I say?" said Bogi from the corner.

"I know, and _you_ know, that you are not going to Triet." The pastoress crossed the door of the study without glancing inside. Mother Kallista followed her. "Right now it doesn't make sense for _anybody_ to go to Triet. In the future, we might end up having to rely on crafts to sustain ourselves. However, there is currently a giant hole in the ceiling, and we need funds to fix it now." Their footsteps headed towards the exit of the rectory. "I am not going to sell him any more than necessary."

"What are they selling?" wondered Colette once they were gone. A sudden worry shot into her chest. "Since the decorations are gone, I don't know what else Mother Kallista would be upset about, except..." She trailed off.

"Except?" prompted Bogi.

The door to the rectory opened again. "All right," said a jovial, unfamiliar voice. "So where are we headed?"

"The library is down here to the left," came the pastoress, sounding businesslike. "I'll trust you to tell us which books are worth anything rather than us trying to pick them out..."

Despite the fact that Colette hadn't read anything in the library in weeks, she felt a rush of protectiveness at the words. They were talking, perhaps, about _her book_...in Mother Kallista's library. She jumped to her feet. "I'm going to see which ones they sell."

Colette edged out of the study room and down the hallway, unsure what the pastoress would think of her following.

"Pamphlets...hm," she heard from outside. "Not much of a market for those..."

Colette stood in the doorway. The merchant, who wore clothes that looked like they could have actually been made of monster hide, crouched in front of a shelf of old pilgrimage pamphlets. He shuffled sideways, crablike, stopping in front of a shelf full of heavy bound books. "Now, these might be something..."

Mother Kallista and the pastoress stood near the desk with their backs turned to Colette. She could see Mother Kallista fidgeting.

"I know people who would buy these sorts of commentaries," said the merchant. "Problem is, they'd already have most of the ones here...is this a revised version?" He pulled out a book with a dotted blue cover and held it upwards. "This could be a couple hundred Gald."

"That's fine," said the pastoress as Kallista winced. "There are devotionals on the other side of the room. How about those?"

"Hrm..." The merchant scuttled to the side again, only to come to a halt at the next shelf. "What's this? I don't recognize this."

To the horror of both Colette and Mother Kallista, he took out _The Last Years of the Great War._

With movements so casual that Colette found them insulting, he flipped through the first few pages. "Angelic language...secular binding...what is this one?"

"_The Last Years of the Great War and the Triumph of the Hero Mithos,_" supplied the pastoress. "That one is...very rare."

"Rare?" The merchant looked back to her and raised his eyebrows. "This is the one Witzemacher wrote an entire book of his own on, right?"

"Yes," answered Kallista feebly.

"'Very rare' is an understatement," said the merchant. He whistled. "I've never even heard of a copy of this before."

"Please don't sell that one," Colette cut in.

Now the priestesses noticed her. "Chosen, how long have you been here?" asked the pastoress.

"Almost the whole time," Colette admitted. "I know it's not really my place to ask, but...that book means a lot to me." Her eyes flicked towards Mother Kallista. "Please don't sell it."

"This depends," said the pastoress. "How valuable is it?"

The merchant shrugged. "To be honest...I could keep on looking, but it's probably worth more than the rest of this library." And he gave the price.

Mother Kallista closed her eyes and put her hand to her forehead.

There was a long, silent moment. "We'll consider it," said the pastoress finally. "Is there anything else besides?"

The merchant scanned the rest of the room, and ultimately took out about a dozen other books, most of them from the shelf of devotionals. By this point Bogi had come down to join Colette in the doorway, and Mother Kallista seemed unable to look up from her own feet. When the merchant was done, he took all the books to the desk – minus Colette's book – and gave exactly how much he'd pay for each. Most weren't as valuable as the first commentary.

"That's a lot," said Bogi when the merchant gave the final number. "Right?"

The pastoress sighed. It was a substantial amount, but Colette knew it wasn't enough to pay for all the repairs.

"There aren't any more?" asked the pastoress.

The merchant shook his head. "Most of the others wouldn't go for more than ten, twenty Gald. I won't buy them for that." He tilted his head towards the other side of the room. "Unless you want to sell the book on the great war..."

"Pastoress," Colette pleaded. But the pastoress was silent, standing with her arms clasped.

"Tell you what," said the merchant. "I'm on my way down to Triet. But I know somebody, a scholar near Hima, who would pay tens of thousands for that book. If you think you might want to sell it, why don't I stop here on my way back up?" he said, straightening his hat. "Think you can make a decision in a month?"

"We'll have decided by then," the pastoress said quickly. She looked straight at Colette. "Won't we?"

Colette nodded.

The merchant paid for the books he was going to take, then picked them up in one big stack. The pastoress went to escort him from the church, and Bogi followed, leaving Mother Kallista still holding her head in the center of the library.

Colette stepped towards her. "Mother? Are you all right?"

Kallista jerked back to attention. "I'm all right," she said. Then she laughed. She started to thread her fingers through her unkempt hair. "Ridiculous, aren't I? I wasn't even particularly fond of any of those books..."

"I heard you telling the pastoress you didn't want to sell any of them," said Colette. "I'm sorry. Should I have said something sooner?"

"Oh, no, this doesn't have anything to do with that," said Kallista with a sigh. "I simply...don't think I'll ever get used to seeing a stranger in this library."

She sat down. Colette watched her, frowning.

"You know...I _would_ go off to Triet myself to sell wares, if it would help the temple," Mother Kallista muttered. "I wish I could. I honestly wish I could."

And then it dawned on Colette. The fact that she had never seen Mother Kallista in the village, or even far outside the House of Salvation, now took on new meaning. She moved her hand as though to put it reassuringly on Kallista's arm, then thought better of it. "Mother, are you..."

"She's right, of course," Mother Kallista interrupted as she suddenly stood up and started to pace around the room. "I don't like that she arranged this without telling me, but we need the money. _The Last Years,_ though...it shouldn't have to come to that. I know you don't want it sold, either –"

"It's fine," said Colette, even though it wasn't. "We have a month until the merchant comes back, right? So...if that's the case..."

And as she searched for how to best soften her meaning, then how to soften the decision itself, the solution came to her. It was simple.

"I'll use that time to copy it."

Mother Kallista, who had picked up the book and was fondling one worn corner, suddenly turned back to Colette.

"You'll what?" she said at the same time as the pastoress, who had just come back from seeing off the merchant and was now standing in the doorway.

"I'll copy it," said Colette earnestly. She turned to address the pastoress. "It's the church's duty to preserve whatever texts it can. But I know that we need to preserve ourselves first," she conceded. "So if I make another copy, we can sell the book, and preserve the story."

The pastoress was speechless. Said Mother Kallista, "Do you have any idea how much time it takes to copy a book, Chosen?"

"I know it'll take a long time," said Colette. "But we have an entire month –"

"It can take _years_ to copy a single volume of scripture."

"Hold on." The pastoress raised a finger. "This book is shorter than any volume of scripture, isn't it?"

"If so, not by much," said Mother Kallista. "It's about the same length as the Prescriptions." She put her hand to her eyes. "Chosen, I, I know you mean well, but...I'll put it bluntly. This is insane."

"Let her start," said the pastoress. "Let her copy a chapter and see if she thinks she can finish it."

"Right now?" asked Colette. She was astonished it was the pastoress who was speaking like her ally.

"If you want," answered the pastoress. "When does your father arrive?"

"In about an hour, I think."

"Well, that will give you a good benchmark, won't it?"

"Yes." Colette fell silent, until realizing that the pastoress was waiting for her to start. "Um, may I – I mean, I'll go and get paper and a pencil from my bag."

She ran back to the study; took a stack of lined parchment out of her folder, along with her pencil with the blue eraser; then ran back to the library.

Mother Kallista was exasperated to see her return with her materials. "_Colette_," she groaned, but did not argue, and in fact she stayed in the library, watching Colette as she wrote.

That first day, Colette copied just under three dense pages, which was less than half of what she had already read when Mother Kallista first found her in the library. This filled up five handwritten pages front and back, which was nearly all of her lined paper. The angelic language was less familiar to her hands than to her eyes, and her wrist began to hurt within the first few paragraphs. She became so absorbed, however, that Father Andrew had to knock on the library door and tell her when her father had been waiting outside for fifteen minutes.

* * *

_I know this is only a small service in the face of Your deeds; but please, let my work praise you in whatever way it can._

The book contained 1,326 paragraphs across thirty-three chapters, at least according to Witzemacher by way of Mother Kallista. There were no numbers on the pages, but Mother Kallista guessed there were about two hundred overall, and if it looked longer it was only due to the thickness of the paper.

Bogi helpfully did the math. "If you did three pages in an hour," he said, "then it's going to take you between sixty-six and sixty-seven hours to do the entire thing. I multiplied up." And he showed Colette the paper on which he had tested out over a dozen guesses multiplied by three, slowly refining the arithmetic until it gave him numbers close to two hundred. "And that's less than three days. You should finish it no time."

Even without doing her own math, Colette could tell that he was a little off with his last statement. After finishing her lessons, she only had a couple of hours at the temple before her father came to pick her up. The second day, she set herself to copying again, and didn't get any more work done than she had on the first. She asked the pastoress if she could take the book home with her, only to be declined on the grounds that it was old and delicate and might be damaged in transit; so that evening she asked her father if she could start staying late at the House of Salvation in order to write a book.

"You're...writing a book?" he asked, stunned.

"I mean...I'm copying it," she said. "Because there's only one copy in the world." He blinked at her. "I volunteered."

"Well," said her father, a little unsure what to do with this information, "we should ask your grandmother first."

"Colette, that's ridiculous," her grandmother said over dinner later. "It's not safe for you or anybody else to walk back any later."

"Then could I please stay overnight sometimes?" Colette asked in desperation.

"What about school?"

"On weekends," Colette amended.

Her grandmother slowly set down her mug. "I suppose there's nothing wrong with that. What is the project you're working on again? Your father said you were copying something."

"Yes, grandmother. A book."

"Part of a book?"

"No, the whole book," said Colette. "It's a long book, but not that long. It's not nearly as long as scripture. And it's really important to me."

So with her grandmother's blessing, she brought a change of clothes in her bag to the temple a few days later, and spent nearly the entire weekend copying. During the day she brought the book to the study room, where she could look out the window and hear everybody passing by. At night she stayed up late in the library, working by lamplight until she could hardly lift her pencil, at which point she would straighten up her space with exhaustion and tiptoe through the halls to what was currently the women's bedroom, where she had been given a mattress.

Colette tried to take few breaks, but she could only write for so long before the sight of words across a page become unbearable. She broke for meals, during which she learned that the pastoress was an excellent cook, and that Mother Kallista was vegetarian. Other times she sought out one of the priests, who she was used to talking to in lessons and lectures but had never had much occasion to spend time with while they were going about their daily lives. Father Andrew, for example, had showed her the garden in meticulous detail, describing what he had planted where and why, and which plants looked like they would have a good harvest in the spring and which plants looked like they wouldn't, and told her that the amount which wouldn't had seemed to increase every year.

Despite this, Colette didn't see much of Mother Kallista. They were in the same room during meals, and occasionally Colette would spot her passing by in the halls, carrying something to one of the back rooms. But she didn't speak to Colette more than to give a greeting, and she avoided both the library and the study room while Colette copied in them.

This troubled Colette. But Father Andrew advised her to wait until Mother Kallista said something to her first, since Mother Kallista was a person who took care of things her own way. Looking over some of Colette's work, he had frowned as he read certain passages. But then he told her that he was genuinely impressed that she had gotten as far into the copy as she had, and that with effort, she was sure to finish.

Yet the next week, by which point Colette had used up half the month and only copied eleven of the thirty-three chapters, she realized she was going to have to put in even more. She was now accustomed to the cadence of working down one side of her lined paper, turning it over, working down the reverse, setting it to the right as she took another from the stack to her left, and repeating. She set the book up on a stand in the middle of the desk while she wrote on the paper in front of her, and this way she could see both texts easily. Already she had gone through all the lined paper in her house, asked her father to buy her more at the general store, asked her teacher for some after explaining her mission, and still worried that she would have to finish the book on unlined sheets.

Each morning she spent the time before school started sharpening pencils so that she could switch out a dull one in the middle of a page later without losing her place. She was becoming used to the ache in her hands, to the callus that rose on the side of her middle finger. It had gotten to the point where she was no longer registering the words she copied, where they passed straight from her eyes to her hand without being read, and she learned early on that she needed to read over each page as it was finished to make sure she hadn't skipped a line. It was like her free time had become work and lessons were now relaxation. Copying the book was the only thing she thought about, and yet she still feared deeply that she might not finish in time – for after all she was working at the upper limit of her own pace, and her own pace had always been too slow.

The second weekend up at the temple, she stayed up even later in the library, writing until her wrist screamed, frustrated with herself for her speed. One night Mother Kallista nudged the door open.

"Chosen." She held her own candle. "You shouldn't still be here. It's late."

Colette couldn't see her expression, only points of light where the candle and lamp were reflected in her glasses. "I know it's late." She put down her pencil. The sides of her hand throbbed. "I...want to make up for how slow I am."

"You really don't have to do this," said Mother Kallista, sounding like herself for the first time in two weeks. "Listen. I've been making clothes from old vestments. When I have enough...I'm going to hire a cart and take them to the market in Triet myself, along with some of the devotionals. I won't come back until I've made enough, and I'll convince the pastoress beforehand not to sell the book."

Colette couldn't imagine how Mother Kallista, on her own, would fare trying to hawk goods in a distant market. "You can't go to Triet. Even the pastoress said so. Please, I swear I'll finish this book."

"Chosen, it's not that!" exclaimed Mother Kallista with an uncharacteristic anger. She immediately lowered her voice. "This is – listen, there is more to a book than its words, do you understand?" she whispered frantically. "I've been studying that volume for the past five years, and do you think I still look at the words themselves? Which is to say, do you think I still need to reference it for the text? Or for how it's actually been put to paper?"

In her fatigue, the sentences seemed to tangle in Colette's mind. "What?"

"The book itself," said Mother Kallista. "It's the book itself that's important. Do you understand?"

Colette stared down at the book with its crinkled edges. "I...I thought this was a way to make it so everybody was happy."

Mother Kallista's face went blank. "I'm being immature," she mumbled. "I'm sorry." She backed of the room and closed the door.

Colette looked down at the book again. A few minutes later, she left the desk as it was, tiptoed outside to use the toilet and wash her face, then went to bed.

* * *

That night it rained. It leaked through the tarp over the hole in the roof and flooded not only the hallway in the House of Salvation, but also the well outside. It seeped into the storage room and soaked most of the clothes Mother Kallista had made, too.

Colette surveyed the damage with her the next morning, both of them standing barefoot at the edge of the water in the hallway. Mother Kallista shook her head. Colette thought she was going to say something regarding the night before, but instead she only suggested that Colette get breakfast and then go home rather than try to work in the rectory today.

Colette considered this. "Mother," she said, "why is it...that you can't travel anywhere?" She paused. "Does it have something to do with the pilgrimage when you first came here?"

Mother Kallista took a long time to respond. "I was expecting you to ask sooner or later," she said, crossing her arms over her chest. "Did somebody tell you what happened?"

"No," said Colette. "I didn't ask anybody else. But I also usually notice when there are large groups of pilgrims at the temple. I don't remember any large groups that came when I was small from Palmacosta."

"I can't fault your memory," Kallista deadpanned.

Colette turned towards her. "Is it something you're allowed to talk about?"

"We ran out of supplies coming up from the desert," said Kallista bluntly. "So, along the way, we started to forage. We thought we knew what we were doing, and made it almost to Iselia on that." She looked down, and dipped one of her toes in the water, then stepped back. "Somebody found a tainted stream, or we misidentified something poisonous. I'm really not sure. Either way, I became ill. Everybody else died."

Colette didn't say anything. She fixed her eyes firmly down the hallway, where the clear water still moved in almost imperceptible waves from where Kallista had touched it.

"I'm sorry," said Colette.

"Yes," said Mother Kallista. "I am too."

"But...you know," said Colette, as reassuring as she could, "there are people who travel from here to Triet and everywhere else all the time. You wouldn't have to go alone. You could find somebody who really does know what they're doing."

"It's not that." Mother Kallista shook her head. "It's not that. It's...I'm not sure how to explain this." She took a deep breath. "We were already near here when the illness set in...not that the others ever knew. What I mean is, we were already long past the southern House of Salvation. For quite a while...I was on my own, in one spot, trying to figure out what to do. I remember that spot very well. There was an old fencepost."

She was very silent again. Colette looked over, but was unsure what to do, for she was not crying.

"That spot," Mother Kallista eventually continued, "stands between Iselia and the rest of the world. I mean that literally. And I...don't ever want to see it again. I don't want to pass there ever again. But...at the same time...I know that this is all in my head, and that I'm alive, and that I'm foolish."

"I don't think that's foolish," said Colette.

"What?"

"Maybe you think not being able to leave is foolish," said Colette. "But I don't think you're foolish for wanting to stay here until you're ready."

Mother Kallista said nothing. There were murmurs from another room, one of the other priests rising to take stock of the night's flood.

"I'm going to finish copying the book," said Colette. "I decided." She straightened her shoulders. "I know you don't want to lose the original, but...I want to help the temple, and everybody here. Including you. And I don't want anybody to have to make themselves suffer." She gripped the hem of her nightdress. "So...let me finish this. Please. So long as we keep the story, I'm sure everything else will turn out all right."

"I understand that," said Mother Kallista. "I just wanted to make sure you're doing this because you think it's right, not because you're answering to the pastoress, or my own feelings, or anything else. Because Martel knows you're going to have to do that enough in your lifetime." Her mouth twisted ruefully. "Of course, I've gone and ruined that a bit now, haven't I? I've put all my problems in front of you, and you're going to feel even more like you have to do it."

"I'd be saying this anyway," said Colette. "I want to finish the book."

"Good," said Kallista. "Keep on wanting it. And don't let me keep bothering you."

"You weren't," said Colette. But Mother Kallista had already started to walk away.


	6. 4: How Prayers Are Answered

4.

* * *

A week later, Bogi was sharpening Colette's pencils for her in addition to bringing her food. She had finished nineteen chapters.

"You're working faster," said Bogi when he showed up after her lessons. "Right?"

"I don't think I _can_ work any faster," said Colette. Normally she held her pencil so that the barrel sat near her fingernail, but the cuticle had cracked open and started to bleed. Now she was trying to hold her pencil differently, but it only slowed her further. "I can't even remember what happened in the last part I copied."

She had started to fall asleep in school sometimes, too, which made her feel horrible, but Mr. Taban seemed sympathetic towards her and hadn't called her out on it. Or perhaps the book had nothing to do with it, and would let her get away with it regardless because she was the Chosen. Oftentimes she couldn't tell, but the second sort was worse. "Do you think...maybe I could get myself excused from school? Just this week?"

Bogi shrugged. Colette went to retrieve the book and start for the day. When she entered the library, however, Mother Kallista was there, holding the book open at the place Colette had marked.

"Mother Kallista," said Colette softly, "you really love these books, don't you?"

Kallista looked up. To Colette's surprise, she grunted and closed the book shut. "Do I love them? No, not really. I like having them. That's not very healthy for a priestess, is it?"

"I think you talk about them like you love them," said Colette. "I mean, in a good way." Kallista shook her head. "So...why do you like that one in particular?" said Colette carefully. "The book itself. Besides the story. Is there a reason besides what you told me?"

"It's a foolish one. I've told you I was an academic, right?"

Colette nodded.

"This book," said Mother Kallista, holding it up like a gem, "was what I wrote my thesis on. Guessing at how much one could reconstruct from the existing commentaries...trying to imagine what part it played in early worship or mythology...and so forth. I was in love with the mystery of there being this...this fantastic story that had been lost to time. We no longer had it, and yet we had irrefutable proof of its existence from all these other writings, and that was enough to see a kind of reflection..." She shook her head. "Show me a better description of belief in the divine. I couldn't, which is why I became attached to it. So to find myself here, in Iselia, and to suddenly come across it...I couldn't believe my eyes. There are some people who might be disappointed with what it was. But I wasn't."

"It was good enough just to find it?" asked Colette.

"Not even." Mother Kallista grinned for the first time in weeks. "There are so many good parts they completely skipped over in the commentaries! Like in the section you read: I never knew that Martel cursed the priest and his guards out of the temple until I actually read it."

That had been the only uncomfortable part of the passage for Colette, but she saw how much Mother Kallista enjoyed it, and had to admit that in a way, it was sort of cool. "I can tell you really do love it, though."

Mother Kallista gazed down at the cover. "When you get to the bottom of it...your ideas are probably right. I love the story. Liking the book itself is just selfishness." She wiped a smudge from the front with her sleeve, then turned around and presented it to Colette. "Here. You came to get it, didn't you?"

Colette took it from her hands. "Thank you."

"How much do you have left?" asked Mother Kallista.

"Fourteen chapters," said Colette. "I...I did eight just last week."

Mother Kallista covered her mouth. "You're running yourself raw. I told you, you shouldn't have attempted this in the first place –"

"It's fine," said Colette. "I want to do this." She took a deep breath. "You told me to keep wanting it, right?"

"I told you to keep wanting it, but not to kill yourself for it," said Mother Kallista. "Do you think you can even finish at this rate?"

"I don't know," said Colette honestly. "I don't. But I want to try. So..." She nodded and started to back out of the room. "Thank you. For letting me do this."

"It's not even my book to let you with, Chosen," said Mother Kallista in a tone that told Colette she still regretted it.

* * *

Whether the book was sold or not, the outcome wouldn't be good for Mother Kallista. If the book was sold, then she would lose it. If the book wasn't sold, then she would have to put in even more time making clothes to try to sell in the village, because Colette had overheard the pastoress asking her in a bit of an anxious voice how quickly she could remake the stock that was lost in the flood. That was in addition to how much Kallista would beat herself up for being unable to go elsewhere, such as Triet, where garments from the Martel Temple would sell better. Colette felt badly for this, and yet she still couldn't tell which outcome Mother Kallista would prefer. Now, with her ambivalent support for the project, Colette thought that Mother Kallista maybe didn't know herself.

Colette still put her hopes in the copy. The merchant had said that he would return in a month, and Colette had to assume that he meant it, so that she could plan to use every last day. She prayed that he wouldn't show up early. She prayed with every word, now, reciting in her head as she wrote, counting over each sentence like a prayer bead in order to keep the tedium at bay. (There were twenty-eight Litanies of Protection in the twentieth chapter alone.)

On the night of the last weekend she would have to stay at the House of Salvation, two days before the merchant was scheduled to show, Colette realized she was copying the scene in chapter twenty-four in which Martel and Mithos tried and failed to prevent the execution of a righteous duchess who had helped them. In Mother Kallista's interpretation, this was the beginning of a series of disasters that convinced Mithos to seek aid in the form of the holy sword, and the turning point at which Martel began to assist _his_ plans rather than the other way around. Colette, however, remembered this as the first time that the story had felt truly hopeless.

Her hand ached. Against her better judgment, she stopped copying and became caught up in reading the chapter once more. When she reached the scene where Martel spoke to the one she loved about the wickedness and goodness of the world, one of the first scenes of the book she'd read, Colette began to cry, for no particular reason. She fell asleep in the library that day, and only in the morning did she realize she'd soaked the corner of a stack of papers – plain papers, thank _heaven _– in saliva and tears.

The next evening, as she waited for her father, one of the priests told her that he had met the merchant in Iselia that day. He had plans to visit the dwarf who lived north of the village for something tomorrow, said the priest, but he planned to be back at the temple the day after that.

One extra day. Colette had two days to finish nine chapters.

When her father arrived at the temple, Colette begged him to let her skip school the next day and go to the House of Salvation early instead. He submitted only when he saw the hundreds of handwritten pages she had produced so far.

"Colette," he said in amazement, "_this_ is the length of the book you've been working on?" He put his hand on her head in concern. "And nobody's helping you?"

"I volunteered," she managed to say.

That night, the last in her own bed before this ordeal was finished in some way or another, she only had enough energy to eke out a single prayer: _Please, please, please, please, please..._

She woke up groggy. At the temple the next morning, she asked around for Mother Kallista, hoping for some kind of final blessing, but was told that the priestess had been up late doing something important and was still asleep. Colette closed the door behind her as she settled down in the library.

Morning passed. The pastoress brought her a meal. Afternoon came, and Colette was still working. Bogi showed up on his own and was quiet. Colette had the feeling that perhaps everybody at the temple was waiting outside the door to see if she would finish. At one point she thought she even heard her family's voices through the window, but somebody must have told them she was busy, because they never came inside.

She had no idea when she fell asleep, other than that it was too soon.

* * *

Colette woke up the next morning staring at the bookstand, which sat empty in the middle of the desk.

She jolted up with a start. What had she been doing? There were a couple of lines on the sheet in front of her, but most of it had been crumbled beneath her while she slept.

Colette quickly looked over her own writing. The page immediately to her right bore the header to chapter twenty-seven. At some point, without realizing it, she had copied past the place at which she had stopped reading, and had continued on without absorbing any of the words. But she hadn't even finished the twenty-seventh chapter; her words stopped in the middle of a phrase. That was it: either the book was sold and they were going to lose the end, or the House of Salvation would continue to crumble.

"Chosen." Mother Kallista peeked through the door. Colette couldn't remember having opened it.

"What time is it?" asked Colette dimly.

"It's just before lunch," said Mother Kallista.

"And the merchant –?"

"The pastoress is having him look at some other things," Kallista said softly. "She said she was so impressed by your dedication that she wouldn't sell the book. It's all right." She turned to leave.

"But that means –" Colette floundered. "You and everybody will have to –"

_Where was the book?_ Colette reached for it in a frenzy. Her hand came instead upon a stack of papers sitting on the corner of the desk. The top one was covered in an unfamiliar script. Colette picked it up. Somebody had written out chapter twenty-eight in pen.

She leafed through the pile. All six of the remaining chapters were there. Mother Kallista, she realized, had been working backwards.

The book had been beneath them. The only thing to do was finish the last few paragraphs.

_See, this is how prayers are answered._

When she was done, Colette put the whole of chapter twenty-seven to the side with Kallista's pages. Then she ran to the front of the rectory, where she found the merchant standing across from the pastoress, dubiously inspecting an antique magnifying glass the priests sometimes used to read.

"How about a copy of _The Last Years of the Great War,_" Colette huffed, without preamble, "written...almost entirely by the Chosen?"

* * *

The merchant looked over the pages of Colette's manuscript as delicately as he might handle any ancient book and ultimately decided that, while it was likely worth a good deal to certain people, it still wouldn't be worth as much as the original.

"Not in the current state," he said, looking at first page of Kallista's chapters. "If it was a bit more uniform...no, even if it was just entirely written by the Chosen, and bound, then maybe..." He turned to Colette, his eyes wide. "Still, Chosen, you did this within the month?"

Colette nodded.

"Wow." He put a hand to his head. "You know, if you still don't want to part with the original, you could just finish it up yourself and I could probably give you what you need –"

"She's already written enough," said Mother Kallista softly from the corner. "Take the original. This copy is good enough for us."

He nodded, took the book under his arm, and went off with the pastoress to finish the transaction. Mother Kallista made a point of not looking at them. Before they left, however, the pastoress turned back to Colette.

"Chosen..." said the pastoress. "I don't know...how much good it would ultimately do us to sell...your endorsement...of this particular text." She cleared her throat. "I know I'm the one who encouraged this, but – I should apologize. I honestly didn't believe you would see it through." She glanced over her shoulder towards the merchant, then met Colette's eyes. "Thank you."

When they left, Colette said, "I could finish the copy if you want."

"No." Mother Kallista shook her head. "I checked over what you'd written. Well, most of it. As far as I saw, it was correct."

"It's more than the words themselves, though," said Colette.

"Yes," said Mother Kallista, pointing towards her. "And that" – she swept her arm towards the copy – "is a physical manifestation of your blood, sweat, and tears." She paused. "Have you noticed, in that story, how bodily fluids are frequently attended by some sort of supernatural property? Martel, though she heals others by her hands, cures one of her own wounds by placing her lips to it."

"Her flesh '_knit itself together,_'" Colette remembered. "They've just met back up with that man who deserted the army, and he's astonished." She collapsed onto the chair, exhausted and smiling. "I think that might have been at the top of a page."

* * *

The House of Salvation next to the Temple of Martel in Iselia had gained enough money from selling the book that they were able to repair the roof, have the storage room and all the bedrooms sealed from the inside so that they wouldn't flood, and buy new altarmats that weren't fraying. This was after setting aside a tithe each for the school, the cathedral in Palmacosta, and the orphanage in Luin, where Father Andrew was from. There was enough for the pastoress to buy some elaborate cloth for Mother Kallista from the merchant before he left, which the pastoress said she should use to make new altar drapings as she liked but which Kallista said she would also use to make nice clothes anyway.

"I don't know how these will sell in the village, but I'll hawk them to other merchants that pass by," she said. "At least at first."

"I think you should try going into the village without something to sell," said Colette.

"Oh, I don't know about that," said Mother Kallista. "Nobody knows me over there." But Colette remembered how good Kallista had been about dealing with the carpenter one day by herself, and felt a bit of pride, which was strange to feel towards a priestess who was her elder.

Colette finally finished reading the book as it was written in Mother Kallista's tidy hand. She never did finish the copy in her own hand, for she thought Mother Kallista's penmanship was much better than hers anyway. But one of the priests did bind the manuscript in a nice sturdy cover made with wood and blue fabric. He wrote the title in both angelic and vernacular script, and beneath it wrote: "Transcribed by Colette Brunel, Seventh Chosen Successor of Saint Valens," that being the Chosen who had been the last to regenerate the world.

It was strange for Colette to see her name on a book. They set up a little stand for it in the library, and when word had spread (mostly due to Bogi) that the Chosen had written a book, there were a few curious people from Iselia who came to leaf through it. The pastoress allowed this, likely due to the fact that most of them couldn't read a single word of the angelic script.

Or, maybe, she had come to think more like Colette and Kallista in regards to the book, after seeing what Colette had put into it, after all. On the day Colette turned twelve, there was a special service held for her, as usual. It wasn't like any of the Chosen's other festivals, as the priests arranged for everything in this one, and it was relatively small. For this, Colette had always been privately grateful, as she was already nervous enough on her birthday.

_I know what each year of mine means,_ she prayed. _Please, may I be strengthened with the courage of Mithos...and the determination of Martel. Please guide me on my own journey so that I may make something of the life I have been given..._

Colette didn't know who would deliver the reading. It was the pastoress, usually; though once it had been her grandmother, and this year she had hoped that perhaps Mother Kallista might find it in her to speak before a crowd. But instead, it was Father Andrew who knelt on the altarmat, setting her manuscript down.

At the end of the other row, she saw Mother Kallista smile slightly. The pastoress was impassive. But there was no way, thought Colette, that she hadn't known about this.

Colette tried to pretend she was hearing the book for the first time. Whatever passage it was, it would be a good one, and for the first time in her life something on this day would...give her strength.

Father Andrew carefully opened the crisp lined pages straight to Colette's text, and began to read.

* * *

**A portrait of the artist as a young woman; or, how to survive theology as an aesthete.**

**Finishing this has been an exercise in putting a part of myself to rest.**

**I wish everybody who reads this peace.**

* * *

**For anybody who was wondering:**

**Where's Lloyd?: Either in Tethe'alla doing whatever he's doing in Sweet Bread, or he just hasn't stared school in Iselia yet.**

**What about the Sages?: They could still be elsewhere, or Raine hasn't started teaching yet. Colette's teacher in this is old and probably means to retire soon.**

**What about the pastor?: Likewise, the pastoress probably passes away sometime between this and the start of the game, and is replaced by Father Andrew.**


End file.
